Now it is not a question of wanting
what the dead wants
or the slum dweller
it is not a question of poverty
it is that of living, on the bedrock
of what we call living.

Mount your ways, of sordid expressions
clamp down on them, with a heavy heavy hand
beat them till they pant- for breath
set goons and police after them.

It is a question of living. Call the living
invoke the dead, create paltry fires of death.

It is a question of living.

The warmth of summer in this town lingers
like the smell of damp places or dank houses
but I have grown to love this syndrome.
What do you do when you don't love
do you hate?
The smell of summer seasons beats the rain
which can appear any time. But the clouds disappear
with alacrity, and old wounds fester.

Nearby the mighty river bears fangs- sometimes
otherwise it can be as lukewarm as water, but it has
an ancient past, and when the monsoons strike terror
it plants a mysterious death wish.The people in the villages
know it, and the river island also feels its breath, cover for love.

The days of childhood are over, but this moment
reminiscences like these will talk. Will speak.

And I will weave once again dreams.

There is sadness when the poem does not appear
on print. The sadness outgrows the present
and escapes drudgery.

There is sadness when silences of evenings
weigh heavily on times that are hurt.
Hurt because of what is happening.
What? When a child sees the dead of a road
is swallowed by breathing water.

There is sadness when a country re writes history
indefatigibly, unerroneously. A country which shares
burden of colonial discontent.

There is sadness when a friend's jealous looks at mine
when the poem is finally published.

The poem is actually published.
Sadness persists in aftermath.

Summer greys have disappeared
taut silence, heavy tighrope walking.
Autumn's charms are here and winter
serenades. Down the abyss a little bird
is hopping mad, and a country held at ransom.
****. Blood's lust slowly takes over silences of past.

Don't abrogate freedom, don't. Country of disdainful
dreams, let us perish before you do. Angels will lament.

Evening's soul rests on dark, light, shades
even as shadows fall on streets
even as the drunk starts ululating.
Evening has a soul, and in it impinges
past.

In Evenings I just want thoughts to saunter.
Nascent. And in evening the ghoul starts talking
and the owl serenading. Dogs and ******* give moaning
catcalls, to signify their presence, that they are living
like me and you.

Evenings do a turn around as darkness spreads
into my body. I weave unbecoming fantasies.
Taking a blank paper for my mind to write.

Evening stares at philosophy, monotony
and rush of vehicles stampede thoughts.

Evenings go berserk with street lights
and quiet bonhomie.

Legerdemain with words you are poet
but you are blind to the blood, or the Middle East
Storm. You write of your love, but not love of a beleagured
cosmos.
You are frivolous in many ways, publish or perish is your
encrypted symbol or motto.
You smell the whiff of flowers and write a poem
not blood. You lap up what is shown in television
and ape the developed, shopping malls and the Prime
Minister's latest philosophy. So you will do anything '
to attend a lit fest, won't you? Yes, I did it, but now the ephemera
of events bore me. But secretly I tell you given the chance,
I will attend, so that my washy face appears on television.

Poet, I will tell you one thing.
There is no point in writing if it doesn't
move the wind, the trees and charlatans.
Don't expect rewards. Look for awards
by hobnobbing and then protest. It is very simple.
People like protests, especially from poets and writers.

Do some homework. Go back to school
and take teaching lessons.

Reading poems is the way of discovering
that people  write for fun, they write of
the very things that you think preposterous.
They write of love, and you write of hate.
Poetry is in many ways charade of indiscipline,
even gross indignity. Gives you joy rides and goose
bumps. Why do people write- poetry?
I deliberate and out of it curse people, write a poem
send it for publication. The laptop creaks. The editor whines
when flooded by my irksome mails.

In the streets of the city, and there are plenty, I see a rag picker.
I see the *****.
I see the blinded with begging bowl, but singing. Chanting.
I see barely seven or eight a child pleading for coins and mercy.
I stalk away. Walk away. My hauteur a new demeanour.

Why do people write- poetry?